


beside me the gray sea

by stelleri



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Lighthouses, M/M, Mutual Pining, Selkies, Supernatural Elements, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27651353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelleri/pseuds/stelleri
Summary: The lighthouse is the only thing on the coast for miles.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Harry Peglar
Comments: 15
Kudos: 28
Collections: Trans Terror Week





	beside me the gray sea

**Author's Note:**

> started this pre-pandemic, kept forgetting about it, and then almost ran out of time to post it for trans terror week. in other words, it's been months and I still don't know anything about lighthouses, trinity house, literature, sailing, etc etc
> 
> title from mary oliver's 'bone'

The squat lighthouse clings to a rocky point, distant enough that it looks like miserable work to reach it in a storm. There‘s a little house down where it isn’t so narrow, its glowing kitchen light a welcoming sight in the creeping dark. 

He knocks. 

The lighthouse keeper is a short man with well-worn clothes and an easy smile. He is also, unfortunately, quite handsome under the beard and messy hair. 

“Just one night,” John says. “Maybe two. I can pay you, of course–” Peglar waves his hand dismissively. 

“It’s really no problem, Mr. Bridgens.” 

“Well. If you insist.” 

The spare bedroom is small and dusty, the eaves cramped and the mattress threadbare, but John sleeps deeply all the same. He wakes with the smell of salt in his lungs and allows himself a luxurious moment to just lie there, eyes closed, so content that even the shrieking gulls sound almost soothing. It takes great effort to roll out of bed and down the creaking stairs. 

Peglar is frying eggs and humming quietly in the cramped kitchen. He greets John with disarming cheerfulness, as though he’s an old friend and not a perfect stranger. 

“Sleep alright?” Peglar asks. John accepts a mug of tea and sits at the table only a little awkwardly. Through the open door beside the table John can just see a narrow bed and a rickety nightstand. It looks oddly bare compared to the main area of the house, with its mismatched chairs and the collected detritus of past keepers. 

“Very well,” John says. "It's good to be by the sea again.” 

“It's nice out here, isn’t it? I can’t sail anymore, but I think this is the next best thing.” Peglar had mentioned, the night before, that he had been a sailor. Something they had in common, though John had never worked on deck. 

“Can’t-?” John bites his tongue with a wince, but Peglar doesn’t seem upset. He wordlessly holds out his left hand to show the slow, stiff way his fist closes, the knotted scars and crooked set to his fingers. 

“An accident in the rigging. It looks worse than it is, honestly. I could...probably go back. But not up in the masts, I think. There’s nothing like being up in the masts. And it’s not worth it to go back to sea and wind up on some ocean liner.” 

“You miss it?” John asks. 

“Yes. Sometimes,” Peglar says wistfully. He keeps busy at the stove, his back towards the table. John can’t quite tell how much he’s upset him. “It’s just a shame, you know? I’ve been halfway around the world but there’s still so many places I’ve never seen. I mean, I could be in Antarctica right now, on one of those new expeditions. _They_ still use sailing ships.” 

“I’ve been to Antarctica,” John says absently. Peglar perks up and spins to face him, his face free of the melancholy that John had expected. “We didn’t spend much time near the continent, and I never left the ship. Steward, you see, on a whaler,” John says quickly. He understands Peglar’s eager curiosity, but unfortunately he’s about the least interesting or well-connected polar explorer out there. He pauses, remembering the open book on the table the night before, the neat, dust-free bookshelf on the other side of the room. “I think I have a book, though, if you’d like – it’s about the older expeditions to Antarctica, but it’s still quite interesting.” 

“Yeah?” Peglar’s voice is casual, but John recognizes the bright look in his eyes. 

“I’ll find it for you later,” John says. “Feel free to keep it, if you’d like.” That earns him a grin. 

“I’ll trade you, yeah? Your book for one of mine.” 

“Agreed.” That alone makes this sojourn well worth it. John’s had the same couple of books for months and no opportunity to switch out any of them. 

They’ve both finished eating, but Peglar doesn’t seem in any hurry to leave, so John stays seated. “Last night you said there was a village nearby?” 

“Yeah, about an hour or two inland. It’s small, but I’m sure there’s work if you’re looking to stay in the area.” Peglar pauses, looking at John thoughtfully. “If you want...I’ve been here by myself for a few months. I can keep up with the work alright, but it’s easier with two. Even if you only stayed for a few days, I’d welcome the company.” When John only stares for a moment, surprised, he sits up straighter and adds: “You’ve no obligation to stay longer, of course. It’s just a thought. If you don’t have anywhere to go.” 

“Aren’t lighthouses normally a little more formalized?” John asks. 

“Edward - the other keeper, I mean – was hired on like this.” Peglar shrugs. “He said the old keeper just sent out a letter explaining the situation. Not the usual system, but it all seemed to work out. _I_ was sent here by the board, but they haven’t sent me the help I requested months ago. Starting to wonder if they even remember there’s a light out here.” 

In the end it’s not a very difficult choice; John has nowhere to go and no one to miss him, and he’s spent far too long on the move. It won’t be too great of a hardship to stay for a short time, and he can pack up and leave quickly if he needs to. Besides, he’s tired of being alone, and he suspects Peglar might be too. 

“Well. I can’t say how long I’ll stay, but if you really do need the help...” John says slowly. Peglar grins and holds out a hand across the table. 

“I look forward to it, Mr. Bridgens.” 

* * *

The lighthouse is a series of contradictions. Peglar talks about the place like it’s practically irrelevant, at least as far as the board’s concerned. But it’s also one of the most modern lighthouses John has ever seen, a newer shell built over a much older original, lit by a pair of electrical generators that do not, unfortunately, power the house as well. 

He doesn’t know how Peglar handled it all alone. It’s clearly possible, but he can’t have had much free time or energy to spare. 

The house itself is old and leaning and promises to be drafty in winter. It’s filled with the collected detritus of past keepers: colourful quilts, dozens of books, an assortment of cutlery with no two matching pieces, years’ worth of aimless whittling. There’s even a disintegrating accordion with the tools in the shed out back. It’s certainly nicer than most places he’s lived, though he has no idea what he’s meant to do with so much space and only two men to fill it. 

He likes it. It’s a relief to ground himself in a schedule again, to have a constant list of routines and chores, after so long just sort of...drifting. It’s peaceful here, too. Plenty of space to breathe. A little remote but hardly isolated, the village close enough to spare the occasional helper (“They try to keep an eye on the weather, send someone if it looks bad,” Peglar explains. “Saves me trekking out as much to get my mail, anyways.”). And Peglar seems like a friendly, easygoing sort. They could be good friends. 

His eyes also flash in low light, like an animal’s. It’s rarely noticeable, but sometimes Peglar tilts his head at just the wrong angle in just the wrong light and John’s met with bright, unnatural eyes that he can’t quite meet directly. John likes to think he’s a fairly worldly sort of man; he knows better than to draw attention to something seen out of the corner of his eye. 

On the other hand, Peglar has apparently read every book in the house at least once and has something to say about each of them. It’s delightfully refreshing. Peglar spends as much time talking about Shakespeare as he does actually showing John the ropes, that first day, simply because he caught a glimpse of John’s dog-eared copy of _Hamlet_. It’s not often that someone genuinely wants to hear John’s thoughts about literature. Rarer still that they’re willing to listen to him for hours on end. John can, frankly, forgive a multitude of sins if it gives him someone so delightful to talk to. 

Also, half of the books John’s flipped through have little annotations or sketches in the margins, all in the same hand. It’s hard to consider Peglar a threat when he’s drawn a dozen little ships and icebergs in an otherwise-pristine copy of _Frankenstein_. 

If Peglar has any of his own misgivings, he doesn’t let them show.

* * *

There are three graves on a low hill by the house, barely visible from the path and shadowed by a few twisting trees. He visits them once. Just once. 

Peglar doesn’t know who is buried there. One’s for a body washed ashore a couple years back, he says, but the other graves are older. Any names that might have been carved into the markers are long gone now, obscured by a thick layer of whitewash, and there are no other records in any logbook that Peglar’s found. 

Odd, that. The anonymity feels out of place beside a house so old and lived-in, and they’re too far from the water for the graves of a wreck. 

It should be a nice enough spot to sit, with the little house and curving sea before him. But it’s too quiet to John’s ears, despite the ever-present gulls and the rolling waves. Like a held breath. 

The wind brings up the smell of brine and smoke and cooking food. Burnt offerings, John thinks, and shudders. He half imagines he could dig here and find a path to the underworld. Or perhaps a bloated body, incorrupt. 

(John had wondered, early on, if Peglar was some sort of storm-tossed ghost, tethered to one of those blank graves. A sailor thrown from the masts, perhaps, or a drowning victim carried by the currents. It’s only a passing thought. Ghosts are not exactly known for tending gardens and shoveling coal. 

He’s glad. Someone as warm and bright as Peglar has no business lingering like that.) 

* * *

John likes visiting the village, though he feels a little guilty that he gets to go while Harry minds the lighthouse alone. But apparently the winter months tend to be unpredictable, and Harry’s little garden can provide so much for so long. If the supply boat and its laughing captain can’t get to the dock down the hill, well. Starvation’s a bad way to go. Better to overstock now, when the trip into town is still pleasant and he can take the bicycle instead of walking. 

Besides, it’s a nice break for both of them. He gets along well with Harry, far better than he had hoped. But they live in each other’s pocket out of necessity, with only the occasional guest to break up their routines. 

He doesn’t intend to do much visiting today. He’s got enough stops to make – the post office, the grocer’s, Dr. Macdonald’s – not to mention the flour and canned food he has to haul back home. 

There’s also the matter of books. They have their own well-read hoard, but otherwise their options are limited to what they can buy or borrow in the village. If he’s lucky he might run into Dr. Stanley’s daughter; the Stanley collection is well worth the hassle, and she’s more generous than her prickly father. 

He stops by the post office first. He's sure Harry gets more mail in a month than John has received in his entire life; his sister writes constantly, and there’s often a letter or two from former shipmates, the old keeper, his naturalist friend. 

The younger Hartnell stops him outside. He’s clearly on his way somewhere else, his hands full and his friend shuffling restlessly beside him, but he seems happy to stop and chat. Some small talk, and then: “I wanted to say, John – Harry wasn’t sure you’d stick around. I’m glad you did.” 

“Did he need the help that badly?” John asks, for lack of anything else to say. 

“Probably not,” Hartnell admits. “But I think he could use the company, you know? He keeps to himself. I used to visit more, but there's more work to do here with my brother unwell. And no one else is willing to go out there, even when the weather’s bad.” 

“S’haunted,” Hartnell’s friend says. Manson, John thinks. He’d helped out at the lighthouse once, when the supply boat had brought some parts and they’d needed a couple extra men to haul them. “Have _you_ seen any ghosts out there?” Manson asks. He doesn’t sound like he particularly wants to hear the answer. 

“I haven’t, no,” John says. It’s not a lie; he hasn’t _seen_ anything. 

“Only no one’s heard from Mr. Goodsir in –” 

“Mr. Goodsir’s not _dead_ ,” Hartnell interrupts. “He just stopped at the lighthouse on his way out. He’s sent letters, Magnus, I've seen them.” 

“Ghosts, though?” John presses. 

“It’s...complicated,” Hartnell says slowly. “It’s nothing _bad_. I think. If Harry hasn’t said anything, just...don’t worry about it.” John has his own suspicions about any _oddness_ out at the lighthouse, but he won’t push. Not right now, anyways.

“I hear the locals think the light’s haunted,” John says, later. He hands over their new books before turning to sort through the food, running the numbers in his head. They’ve had a decent harvest from the garden and Harry’s an uncommonly successful fisherman, but bad weather will keep him ashore, and if one or both Hartnell brothers come down to help and are trapped by a storm... 

“Oh, that might be my fault,” Harry says with a sudden, blinding grin. John, caught by surprise, quickly busies himself with one of the cans. “It’s usually a pain to get people to lend me their books, right, but it’s easier if I go on about how there’s this spirit who won’t leave the light alone unless I read to it. It’s been branching out lately, you understand, poetry and Greek history and all that.” 

“You liked Herodotus, then? I’m glad to hear it.” 

“Of course I did. You have excellent taste,” Harry says earnestly. By the time John manages to look up, Harry’s already turned his attention back to one of the new books. The _Iliad_ , he thinks. Harry had confessed he’d never read it, and so John had spent far longer than necessary tracking down a copy. Harry traces the title with a small, private smile that deepens when he glances at John. 

God, John wants to kiss him. To kiss him, to let his touch linger, to do any number of other soft and sentimental things. And that’s - terrifying, frankly, the realization that he feels so _deeply_ , when he’d nearly convinced himself that he only loves Harry as a friend, a brother. The worst part is that he’s almost certain Harry’s interested in men, that he could be interested in John. Like recognizes like, after all. 

That doesn’t mean the feeling is mutual. 

* * *

The wind shakes the walls nearly hard enough to tear them apart, the chill creeping through the cracks until the windows might as well be wide open. It’s not so bad in Harry’s room, at least, where they’ve long since moved John’s bed; it’s just large enough for both of them, and it’s far easier to keep the ground floor warm than the entire house. 

It also makes things more difficult, because Harry is half in love with John and not entirely sure how far he should push it, even though he suspects John feels the same. Probably. 

Tonight the room is cold, even with the stove stoked high and a dozen quilts split between the beds. He’d managed to fall asleep earlier, when the room was marginally warmer. He’d been so tired that even his hand, the ache worming into each of the joints, couldn’t keep him awake. 

Now, though – he can’t sleep. He’d dreamed of leaden darkness and water in his lungs and had woken up gasping. The panic’s gone, at least, but now his ribcage feels hollow and his brain won’t settle. He tries to pass the time with a favourite by Verne, but he barely makes it through half a page before the words start swimming before his eyes. Even the dim light from the candle makes his head hurt, a dull pressure like a band around his skull. 

There’s not much he can do about the restlessness and the headaches. He knows the cure, so to speak, but he can’t just _leave_. Not when the weather’s starting to turn and John’s already fussing over him. 

It’s still manageable, anyways. He has plenty of time to find a better solution. 

He flips through the book, frustrated, and pauses on a tiny sketch in the corner of one page. One of John’s tattoos, drawn in a moment of distraction, so small it’s barely more than an inkblot. 

John’s voice in his head teases him about his marginalia. He turns the page hurriedly. 

John returns sometime after the wind lets up, shuffling slowly through the dark kitchen and into the bedroom. He has a knack for telling when Harry can’t sleep and wants to talk, but tonight he’s quiet as he changes into dry clothes, pulling on an extra sweater over his nightshirt. 

Harry stares fixedly at the page, resolutely ignoring a glimpse of tattooed skin out of the corner of his eye, until he’s certain John’s finished dressing. John catches his eye and smiles, faintly, before closing his eyes with a heavy sigh. He looks lovely in the candlelight, even when he’s nearly asleep on his feet. Harry has to look away before John can catch him staring. 

“Do you want tea? Something warm?” John asks, his voice a tired rumble. He doesn't look like he can even make it back to the kitchen, never mind the rest. No doubt he'll fall asleep in his chair and end up with a sore back for his trouble. 

“I’m alright,” Harry says. John still looks cold, even in his thick sweater, and he’s eyeing his bed with clear apprehension. Harry licks his lips and forces the next words out, already half-regretting them. He’s immensely grateful that he’s still holding the book so he doesn’t have to look John in the eye. “You know, I’m happy to share tonight. If you want.” 

He means it genuinely, platonically; John’s exhausted and chilled from the rain and his cold bed will only make it worse. It’s not unreasonable – they _have_ shared a bed before, when an unseasonable late-night chill had left Harry declaring the draughty upstairs bedroom uninhabitable – but. But. 

Last time they’d shared a bed, Harry had thought John handsome but he hadn’t - _felt_ , as such. Not like this, with his heart skipping in his chest, frustrated at the speed they’re moving but halfway convinced the next step forward might be one too far. 

John pauses, his face unreadable, his eyes darting towards Harry and then away. He looks very tired. More than he did a minute ago, maybe. Harry puts the book on the bedside table and pulls the blankets up around his face, resolutely avoiding John’s eye and pretending that he’s only trying to get comfortable. 

“That would certainly be warmer,” John finally says. His voice is very soft. He shuffles the scant few steps across the room and pauses beside Harry’s bed, one hand on the metal bedframe. 

Harry means to roll over again when John finally slips into the bed, so that they can sleep back-to-back and he can, perhaps, preserve a bit of his dignity, but John’s gaze keeps him pinned. His cold, callused fingers ghost along the line of Harry’s jaw before resting at the base of his skull, carefully tangling in his hair. Harry’s stiff hand comes up to curl around his elbow, grasping awkwardly at faded wool, quite without him noticing. 

“Should’ve pushed the beds together. More room,” John mutters, suddenly awkward. His eyes slide away to rest somewhere around Harry’s ear. 

“I’m alright like this,” Harry manages, his chest jolting at the thought of John pulling away. He’s terribly aware of how close they are, of the bare inch of space between their chests. 

John’s expression softens, his eyes crinkling. His face is full of open affection, and he’s in his _bed_ , and Harry can’t stand it anymore. 

Harry breathes in, deep and shaky, and kisses him. It’s light and fleeting, the scratch of John’s damp beard and the curve of his mouth underneath. His breath catches in his throat. 

“You don't ask first?” John whispers when he pulls away. He has a soft, dazed sort of smile on his face, and his eyes keep flicking down to Harry’s mouth. Harry ducks his head and laughs against John’s collar. Impulsively presses a kiss there, thrilling at the possibilities. This could be his evenings, his mornings – he shouldn’t get ahead of himself, but his heart still skips at the thought. 

“Are you saying I shouldn’t have?” 

“Not at all,” John says, low and fond. Harry feels his voice as much as he hears it, his face still pressed to John’s throat. He can’t help but kiss John again, leaning into the hand that comes up to cradle his cheek. 

John’s other hand drags down his back, tracing the knobs of his spine through his shirt. Then back up again, his palm flat against the bare skin of Harry's back, coming to rest between his shoulder blades. Harry’s restless mind settles, just a little. “I wondered...You’ve been watching me since I got in. You’re always watching me,” John murmurs. Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, but John doesn’t seem to need an answer. His fingers stroke along Harry’s temple and down his jaw, soothing away the guilt on his face with a gentle hand and a clumsy, off-centre kiss. 

“I’m also keeping you awake,” Harry says. John hums. 

“A moment –” Harry’s heart lurches when John draws back, but he only sits up to pull off his sweater. In the low light Harry can just catch a glimpse of dark hair and blotchy tattoos before John tugs his nightshirt down. John _had_ been expecting a cold bed, not the heat of another body under warm blankets. If he’s not sweltering now, he would be by morning. 

He can’t resist slipping his fingertips under the hem of John’s shirt, brushing delicately until John leans into his touch. He drags a palm up John’s torso, feeling the scratch of hair and warm skin underneath, the rough scars on his chest, until his hand comes to rest over John’s thrumming heart. Feather-light fingers brush through his hair, and Harry looks up to see John watching him with something like caution. 

Oh. 

Harry had known about John for months, of course, because they’re close friends and because John hadn’t particularly tried to keep it a secret. They’re comfortable with each other. Safe. It's a sort of gut wariness that’s making John tense, he thinks, more than Harry himself; the difference between knowing John sleeps without a shirt in summer and actually touching him with intent. He can relate more than he’d like to admit. 

Harry tilts his head to press a kiss to his palm, his eyes sliding closed when John cups his face properly. Under his own hand, John’s heartbeat slowly calms. 

John had rightly guessed Harry wouldn’t care, and had decided any consequences were still better than festering stress. He wishes, now, that he’d followed John’s lead. The words sit heavy on his tongue – but then John yawns and blows out the candle, and the chance is gone. 

* * *

John is surprisingly tactile. He’s always quick to reach out to Harry, if only to brush a hand against his wrist or back in passing. He always looks delighted when Harry leans into his touch, when he steps into John’s arms properly. 

He’d expected – he's not entirely sure. Hadn’t let himself think about it too much, really. For John to be more reserved, what with the measured way he chooses his words, his constant air of mild concern, the low-level disconnect he has from his own body. 

In reality, John is quick to touch him, even when they go into town together. All very carefully friendly, of course, nothing he wouldn’t have done before; a hand on his shoulder, their elbows knocking together as they walk. Ordinary affection between friends, except that Harry’s had lovers before who had thought even the smallest touch wasn’t worth the risk. They both have. But why shouldn’t a friend clasp his shoulder or look him in the eye? It’s no one’s business but theirs if they stare for a breath too long, or if a hand lingers a touch too intimately. 

How unexpected that John is so demonstrative, almost recklessly, and then tends to blush like a schoolboy whenever Harry says something particularly soppy. 

Harry wants to hoard all of this, to wrap it up and keep it close and safe. Something for when – _if_ the rolling sea in his blood drives him onwards, and John can’t or won’t come with him. 

* * *

Harry’s strange in winter, now that they’re often confined by poor weather. Not so fussed about the rain and cold specifically, but distant all the same. Distracted. Cagey, too, at a time when they’re otherwise astonishingly open with each other. 

It’s not entirely the same as John’s own creeping melancholy, and he doesn’t quite know how best to help, how to make it easier for him. Harry says it’s normal, that they just have to wait it out, but it bothers him anyways. 

It starts quietly – sometime before they got together, he suspects – and worsens slowly. Harry starts to favour his bad hand more often, complaining of stiffness and pain in the joints. Then it’s headaches and dark circles under his eyes that remain no matter how long he sleeps. Manageable things, for the most part; it's no great hardship to take on some of Harry’s workload, and the winter rains keep the cistern full and allow John to draw as many warm baths for him as he likes. 

Harry seems to sleep better with John in his bed. He’s less likely to toss and turn into the night, anyways. It’s only a small victory, but John’s at such a loss that he’s grateful for it all the same. 

(He wonders – he worries – if it’s less to do with the season and more to do with _him_. He can’t quite bring himself to ask. But Harry would tell him, he’s sure. He hopes.) 

It comes to a head in late winter, after a truly miserable week of sleet and fog and contrary machinery and Tom Hartnell boarding in the spare bedroom, encroaching on their space and what little free time they have. 

That’s unkind. John likes Tom, he does, and it’s a great help to have a third person around. They can properly stagger their shifts, this way, so they’re not run so ragged in the depths of a storm. Harry might not be recovering, but at least he’s not getting noticeably worse. And Tom doesn’t particularly seem to care about their relationship, though he almost certainly knows by now. 

Tom had been frowning at breakfast. “Keep an eye on those damn generators,” he’d said through a yawn. “The one gave us problems all night. Can’t figure out why.” He’d stared down at his untouched plate, his brow furrowed by more than exhaustion. “John. Watch Harry. I think something’s wrong.” 

The path feels longer than it ever has, the lighthouse a forbidding hulk. He’s torn between hurrying and slowing down, dread settling heavier in his gut with every step. 

He hesitates at the door. The wind’s worse out on the cliff, though, and the rain freezes him to the bone, and that more than anything else forces him into the lighthouse. 

He needn’t have worried quite so much; Harry’s still upright and moving, stripped down to his shirtsleeves in the warmth of the room. He startles a little when the heavy door bangs closed behind John, greets him with little more than a nod before turning away. 

“I’m starting to think Tom’s cursed. Generator started working as soon as he left,” Harry says. The words are right but his tone is flat, utterly drained of his usual good humour. He keeps his back to John, fiddling with one of the generators. His skin looks flushed and there’s sweat on the back of his neck, and John’s not sure how much of it is from working in the belly of the lighthouse for half the night. 

“I’m more worried about you,” John says, louder and more bluntly than he intends. Harry startles and glances back at him, a flash of that animal shine to his eyes that John barely notices through his worry, then squares his shoulders and turns decisively. 

He looks horrible. No wonder he didn’t want to look John in the face. 

Harry breathes out sharply and mutters something that John can’t hear. They’re left staring at each other until John takes him by the arm. 

“Fresh air and quiet will do you good, Harry. And some sleep,” John says gently. His voice sounds far, far steadier than he feels. 

“I still have work to do,” Harry protests weakly, though he pulls on his sweater and coat readily enough. He sways oddly as he moves, like his skull's too heavy for his body. John desperately pushes down the panic bubbling in his chest. 

He knows full well that Harry’s been sick for a while, but he had suspected he wouldn’t get any answers without the right questions, and he’s never been very good at the direct approach. Harry had managed his illness with either old familiarity or bullheadedness or both, and John had tried to turn a blind eye to the lack of appetite, the great dark rings under his eyes, not wanting to press too hard. 

He tries to get them to the house as quickly as possible, one hand tight around Harry’s arm to keep him moving. But Harry staggers to a stop halfway down the path, immovable and seemingly unaware of the driving wind and rain, his eyes strange and unfocused. 

Harry frowns vaguely when John shakes him by the shoulders. It takes his eyes far too long to focus on John, but at least they stay lucid once they get there. John thinks he might be sick, from fear or relief or both. 

Harry opens his mouth once, twice, but nothing comes out. He swallows and closes his eyes with a long, deep sigh. For a moment John thinks Harry’s going to collapse into him, to fold himself into his arms. In the end Harry only tips his head forward, his forehead pressed to the collar of John’s coat and his pale face hidden from view. His hands twist at John’s waist, his arms moving slow and heavy. John embraces him properly, burying his face in Harry’s wet hair until he can get his breathing under control. He’s distinctly aware that he’s shaking, that they both are, and can’t tell how much of it is from the cold. He can see Tom’s bright oilskin jacket out of the corner of his eye, hurrying towards them. 

“Let’s get you home,” John says. 

* * *

Sometimes Harry dreams of the abyssal sea. Of slogging through the mud with human legs, his lungs full of water and his eyes blind in the crushing dark. Unable to swim, unable to feel the currents that he knows surround him. This feels the same. Something like drowning, when he knows he shouldn’t be able to. Sinking and powerless. 

Harry is not a fearful man, or an anxious one. He doesn’t know how to handle this.

* * *

The pelt is lovely in the morning light, plush and healthy-looking while Harry still feels slow and heavy. John very purposefully doesn’t touch it, just keeps his hands folded neatly at the corner of the table. It’s unnecessary – he knows John’s gentle hands aren’t capable of violence, not towards him – but Harry’s shuddering heart thanks him for it anyways. 

“This is why you’re...unwell?” John asks. He looks Harry in the eye, his eyebrows drawn up in concern. There’s no rejection or fear in his face, only worry and a little curiosity. 

He is, without a doubt, hiding just how _much_ he’s worried. The day before is hazy, distant, but he can still remember John’s shaking hands and the blatant panic in his voice, how he hadn’t wanted to leave Harry alone. Even now John seems off-balance, a foot tapping restlessly and his hair unkempt around his face. Harry reaches out to him instinctively, brushing his hair behind his ear. John sways into the touch, his eyes briefly sliding closed. When he smiles at Harry it’s weak but genuine. Harry breathes in deep and holds it for a moment. 

“I can’t stay away for a long time. From the ocean. It’s...” Harry gestures helplessly. He doesn’t really have words for it, the way the sea rolls in his blood and tries to drag him back. So close, just down the cliffside, but there’s never enough time. 

It had been easier with Edward, who had apparently taken all of Harry’s excuses at face value. He hadn’t much been one for unravelling mysteries, and they hadn’t been all that familiar anyways. Friendly enough, but not close. Nothing at all like John. 

Easier still before that, when he only had relatives and family friends to consider, enough of them scattered along the coast that it was less of a repressed and hidden thing and more of a winking secret. Even as a sailor there had always been others like him, more or less, and they had always stuck together. 

Out here, now, there is only the two of them and the open coast. If John leaves, he'll be alone again. Once he would’ve been able to tolerate it. Now it seems unbearable. 

“I wouldn’t have stopped you. Even if you didn’t tell me why,” John says quietly. There’s something thin and helpless in his voice that Harry can’t stand to hear. But: 

“You don’t seem very surprised,” Harry says slowly. For a moment he starts to feel relieved, but John looks stricken. 

“I thought – I’m sorry, Harry, I thought it was something you didn’t want to talk about. Or couldn’t.” John sighs. He looks as drained as Harry feels. There’s a story there, he’s sure, but he can’t muster the energy to be curious. “What are you going to do now?” John asks when the silence drags on for too long. 

“I should go to my sister’s. There’s, you know, others like us who can help.” Now that he’s started the words seem to pour out, tumbling over each other in their rush to leave his mouth. “It’ll only be for – for a week or two, I think. Not too long. I’m - it was easier to beg off before and still keep it secret, but now – with you – I just mean I’m not leaving. I’ll come back. I just want you to know why.” 

He startles when John touches his hands, too busy looking anywhere else to see him move. Harry automatically laces their fingers together, grounds himself in the familiar shape and warmth of John’s hands. He breathes in deep and holds it for a few long moments. John waits, endlessly patient. 

“I’m normally better at managing this,” Harry says quietly. “It’s harder, out here.” _With you_ , he doesn’t say. John’s thumb rubs his knuckles soothingly. 

“I wouldn’t have stopped you,” John repeats. 

John still isn’t touching the pelt. Harry wants him to, suddenly, and tugs their joined hands down before he can second-guess himself. John hesitates, staring at Harry for a long moment, before carefully burying one hand in silky fur. His other hand squeezes Harry’s, firm and reassuring. 

There’s a living heat to the pelt, an unnatural sort of weight and mass that he’s only ever found comforting. He’s never really thought of how it might feel to someone else, if it might be disturbing. He risks a glance at John’s face, and is relieved to see something like wonder. 

“I’d let you have it,” Harry says in a rush. He knows John won't understand, not entirely, but – but he can still hear the echo of John’s frantic, hitching breaths in his ear, the fear and helplessness there. The horrible, inevitable conclusion, he’s sure, that Harry doesn’t trust him. 

“Harry...” 

“I would,” Harry insists. He lifts his jaw, stubborn. They both ignore his trembling hands. 

“We’ll talk about that when you’re better. Alright?” John finally says. 

“Fine. My sister won’t let me leave until I’m well. Or well enough.” John nods, some of the tension in his shoulders sliding away. 

“Take as long as you need,” he says firmly. “Tom’s already here. We’ll be fine.” 

(When he gets back, he thinks he’ll show John where he hides his pelt. It’s a dangerous thing; there’s a sort of magic to it that doesn’t always benefit its owner. John could steal his pelt and hide it somewhere else, and Harry would have a hell of a time finding it again. But he trusts John more than he’s really ever trusted anyone else, other than family, and – well, any husband or wife of his would know where his pelt is hidden. So. 

It’s too early for _that_ particular conversation, but he thinks it’ll go well when they do have it. It’s a lovely thought, enough to lighten his step as he makes his way down to the water.) 

* * *

Harry isn’t the first selkie John’s met. There’d been another, back when he was a young man and sailing off the coast of North America. An officer with short-cropped hair and a sharp smile - nothing at all like Harry - whose transformation he’d happened to glimpse through a window. John had been very, very careful not to notice the blood between her teeth when she donned her human skin again. 

He’d also thought she was a man, at that point, and then perhaps someone like him, and only realized the truth later. And then she’d thought that he was like _her_ , in disguise, and that had been – but when he had corrected her, very quietly, she’d only nodded and never made the mistake again. A surprising kindness from a notoriously ill-tempered officer. 

Years later, in Antarctica, he’d seen a leopard seal for the first time and immediately thought of her. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, if sheep were as fond of meat as their mimics. Something more dangerous than the average bit of folklore, with all its helpless seal-wives. A measure of safety in the lie, perhaps. 

Other than that, he hadn’t thought about it much. He’d been curious, of course, but he’d known better than to try to ask her, and he hadn’t known where else he could get any good answers. He regrets it now. He probably would have been able to find _something_ , and now he’s stumbling blind. 

* * *

In the end, Harry’s gone for nearly three weeks. He sends a letter early on, from his sister’s house in a town down the coast. Says he’s already feeling better, that his sister’s nearly scolded his ear off. 

_It's not your fault_ , Harry writes, underlined, in that first letter. _Winter’s always harder. I used to sneak out and swim when you were at the lighthouse or asleep upstairs, but it’s harder when we’re together. I got it in my head you’d hate me for it and stopped going out enough. I thought it'd be fine because I’ve stayed away from the sea for longer and didn’t get half so sick. But I’m okay now, and it’s not your fault._

John’s not entirely sure how much he believes him, but if nothing else it’s a relief to see Harry’s familiar handwriting, the clear improvement in the steadiness of his hands. He’s drawn one of John’s tattoos sideways in the margin, like an afterthought: the eye, with its skyward pupil. 

_My sister knows about you._ _She said I’m so distracted I must have a sweetheart._ Then a few crossed out words and a blot of ink. His looping scrawl gets messier, almost illegible. _She wants to meet you someday. Not soon. I think you’d like her._

John has been disowned for a solid twenty years and has never looked back. To think that Harry’s sister, his _family_ , could greet him – or any other man – the same way they might greet a pretty girl on Harry’s arm, is utterly alien. He can't quite wrap his mind around it.

Tom only stays for the first week, until he’s collected by Manson to dig a grave and help tend to his brother. John’s left alone with the chickens, who are middling company and not overly fond of him, and an empty creaking house. 

The loneliness claws at him in a way it never has before, despite the endless work keeping him busy. There are clothes to mend and drafts to stamp out and a dozen other little problems they’ve both been putting off. The graves on the hill are getting overgrown, and both they and the lighthouse need a new coat of whitewash. The garden also needs work, but that’s solidly Harry’s domain, so he leaves it be. 

The silence, too, is oppressive. Invasive. It’s hardest at night, with only his melancholy to keep him company, sharpening memories that had gone dull and harmless. Making him think - 

John is a practical man. He had accepted, early on, that the romantic part of their relationship might not last. They are, after all, two men in close quarters and relative isolation. A warm body in poor weather, and all that. He’d taken comfort in the fact that they would unquestionably remain friends, no matter what else changed. 

He had not considered losing Harry entirely, and he has plenty of time to dwell on it now. 

(Harry had insisted he wouldn’t have died. He’d cradled John’s face in too-cold hands, as serious as John as ever seen him. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this. John, listen-”) 

He misses Harry something fierce. He misses their casual intimacy, the simple joy in having a loved one close by. Little things: the brush of their hands, a sleepy kiss, their feet tangling together while they read separate books. He’s gotten used to discussing novels in the evening, or listening to Harry’s voice as he reads in his slow, careful way. He cooks too much food ( _Remind me_ , he writes. _I made a meal I think you’d like_ ) and catches himself waiting for the creak of the door. 

It’s a small comfort that Harry isn’t any better; his letters start with _my dear J._ and escalate quickly. My darling, my dearest, my love. All things he’s said before, but it’s different to see it written down, without Harry’s fond teasing to soften his earnestness. 

It’s more permanent, too. He could save these letters and return to them after years have passed, even decades, and revel in so much open affection set to paper. He feels like he could nearly sustain himself from this alone.

* * *

Harry returns with the rising sun. He kisses John on the doorstep, not chaste at all, before hugging him tightly. John ducks his head and buries his face in his shoulder, clinging to Harry’s sweater – his _stolen_ sweater, he’d wondered where it had gone – and breathing in deep. He wants to linger there for as long as Harry will let him, but he can’t see Harry’s dear face like this.

Harry’s eyes are clear, his smile wide and easy. He hasn’t looked so healthy in – weeks. Longer. He’d declined so slowly that John had nearly forgotten how often he used to smile, how brightly. 

Harry complains of hunger, of the long trip, and tumbles John into bed anyways, half-dressed and laughing.

After, Harry pulls him into a slow dance while dinner’s on the stove, humming a half-remembered phonograph tune and swaying entirely out of step with the melody. John doesn’t mind. He can feel the curve of Harry’s back through his shirt, the twist of muscle as he slides a palm down Harry’s arm and tangles their fingers together. 

Harry loses the tune entirely and slumps into John’s arms, laughing. John loves him fiercely, his heart fit to burst with it. 

In the morning he wakes warm and comfortable for what feels like the first time in weeks. Harry is still asleep in his arms, perfectly healthy and snoring gently, and the relief is so sudden and bone-deep it nearly overwhelms him. He has to bury his face in Harry’s hair to ground himself, to breath in the familiar smell of his soap until the tight feeling in his chest loosens. 

John’s loathe to leave their bed, especially once Harry stirs enough to kiss his cheek and smile at him all slow and sleepy. But there’s a lighthouse and chickens and breakfast to tend to, even if it takes all of his willpower to get up. It doesn't get any easier when Harry rolls over and immediately falls back asleep, his fingers curled around the edge of the quilt instead of John’s shirt. 

Still, there’s nothing stopping him from going _back_ to bed. He’s not one to waste away the morning, but he can make an exception today. 

* * *

The lighthouse is the only thing on the coast for miles. If he goes back behind the house and a little down the hill, out of sight of the light, it’s all soft blue twilight and the distant lights of passing ships. On his back in the grass, the clear sky arcing above him, he could be anywhere at all. 

Harry can hear an owl in the distance, the steady rhythm of the waves. Then boots disturbing the rocks on the narrow path, the clink of an unlit lantern: John, picking his way through the last of the fading light to find him. 

He stops just short of him, a dark silhouette against the sky. Either it’s lighter out than Harry thought, or he’s gotten predictable. 

Harry can see well in the dark, but the low light still blots out the creeping grey in John’s beard and at his temples. Makes him look younger. John would probably like to hear that, always so self-conscious about the decade between them and the way the grey widens the gap. Harry prefers to see him in the light. 

“Can’t sleep?” Harry asks. John sinks down beside him with a soft sigh, and Harry steadies him with a hand on his side. He sits up properly so he can lay his head on John’s shoulder, and John’s arm wraps around his waist, solid and warm.

“Mm. The bed was cold, and I didn’t feel like reading.” 

“It’s colder out here,” Harry points out. There's a chill breeze coming in off the water, drying his hair and making John shiver. It doesn’t bother Harry much, besides the start of a dull ache in his bad hand, but he’ll happily take any excuse to burrow into John’s side. 

“Well, maybe I was lonely,” John says in his most forlorn voice. Harry can clearly picture the expression on his face, eyebrows and all. He snorts and elbows him, taking care to lean more of his weight into John’s side. 

“Cold _and_ lonely? I could fix that, you know.” 

“Outside? Where anyone could see? No thank you.” How very hypocritical of him. Harry smothers his laughter in John’s shoulder. John ducks his head to press a whiskery kiss Harry’s temple, his mouth curving in a smile. 

“An astronomy lesson, then?” John hums in agreement and settles himself more comfortably. He’s smart as anything, but Harry knows more about the stars; John can tell the story of Perseus in full but is far less certain of his place in the sky. 

Harry doesn’t mind. It’s a heady feeling to have John’s full attention, and he’s always an eager pupil. And it’s no great hardship to curl up together in the grass, to trace the constellations and feel the steady thrum of John’s voice as he recites myth and legend.

* * *

“Do you ever think of leaving?” 

He hears John pause. Harry keeps his eyes on his work, kneeling on the ground and up to his elbows in dirt and weeds. The sun is hot on the back of his neck, the sky full of shrieking, wheeling gulls. They're both down to their shirtsleeves, and he’s spent half the afternoon distracted by the sight of John with his hair tied back and the tattoos on his arms on display. 

“Not often. I’m happy here,” John says. “Do you?” Harry shrugs. 

“I’m happy too. I just get...” he clicks his tongue and shrugs again. “Restless, I guess. I don’t think I’ve stayed in one place so long since I was a child.” 

“Neither have I,” John says. He jams his spade into the earth and leans on the handle, his expression thoughtful. “Do you _want_ to leave? I'm fond of this place, but we’re hardly trapped. I’ll go wherever you like.” 

Isn’t _that_ a thought. 

They've got some money saved up. Enough to get a place of their own, maybe, something with the privacy they’re used to. Or they could keep moving for a while; he knows John misses travelling the world nearly as much as he does, even if he rarely says so. 

Or they could stay here until they’re too old to keep the light going, barely hiding what they are to each other. The thought is far more tempting than he expects. 

“I don’t know,” Harry says honestly. 

“Well, we can hardly leave the lighthouse empty. We have time to decide,” John replies placidly. 

“Plenty of time,” Harry agrees. 


End file.
